Undercover Hardcastle
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The right man for the job.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: G

Author's note: Merry Christmas!

The betas have the weekend off. Typos R' Us.

**Undercover Hardcastle**

By L.M. Lewis

He looked at the outfit dubiously. He looked at McCormick.

"But what if he recognizes me?"

"Hah, I get shoved out the door in a cop suit, with a _loaded_ gun, and wind up writing a note on a napkin in a diner, and you're worried about this? At least there won't be any tequila at this party."

"That was almost_ ten _years ago," Hardcastle shook his head. "Maybe you need to learn to let go of things." He squinted a little. "You know, I think Frank would be really good at this. He's _jolly_."

"He'd need pillows. I didn't bring any pillows."

The judge managed to look briefly huffy, then he returned to his original argument. "But what if he _recognizes_ me?"

"He won't. You'll have all that hair. And a beard. And you just drop your voice and go, 'Ho, ho, ho.' You can do that, can't you?" It was the younger man's turn to look dubious. "They're all really looking forward to it."

Hardcastle nodded dutifully as he reached for the trousers.

"And just remember," Mark let out a sigh, "you don't have to read them the Miranda before you ask 'em if they've been naughty or nice."

00000

They were, indeed, really looking forward to it.

Hardcastle eased a peak through the curtain as he waited for his cue—twelve eager faces, and, in the midst of the others, there was a bundle of nervous energy sitting in his mother's lap . . . no, it didn't qualify as sitting—too much motion involved.

That one's eyes, below a tousle of hair that absolutely refused to cooperate, had a somewhat worried expression. The judge had been told about the attempted gassing up of the Coyote with Kool-aid a few weeks back, just one in a series of misadventures that somehow never surprised him when he heard about them. None of it was ever malicious; the kid was just awfully _busy_.

Matt's teacher was hushing them all. Not much success, but everyone was at least sitting down. Then there was a shaking of bells, and a gentle shove from behind. "You're on."

"You're gonna owe me for this," he muttered over his shoulder in his best imitation of gruff.

"Hah, this doesn't even bring us _close_ to being even." Mark's whisper followed him out onto the stage.

"Ho, ho, ho."

More bells, much high-pitched, gleeful shouting, a little more hushing, and some instructions about taking turns nicely.

00000

Requests were heard, candy canes and little felt stockings were handed out. One or two lost their nerve at the last minute and had to be coaxed close enough to have their pictures taken. Hardcastle thought his eyes might never be the same, after the raft of flash photography.

He gradually became aware that Matt was hanging back. Now he really _was _sitting in Kathy's lap, looking more worried still. The waiting line had dwindled away. He saw Kath whispering what was probably encouragement.

Hardcastle gave a jerk of his chin, a gesture probably lost under the elaborate beard. "Come-on, kiddo; your turn." He patted his knee, realizing a moment too late that he should have dropped his voice a half-octave.

Matt's eyes had gone a little wider, then narrowed down slightly, with a quick glance up at his mother. Mark, standing a few feet off to the side, camera in hand, rolled his eyes. The boy was on his feet now, if only driven by curiosity. Hardcastle could almost see the gears turning, the sideward glance at his father.

_The gig's up. Well, at least I warned him. _

Then Matt was at his knee, leaning on it with his elbows, looking up at him with fixed intensity as if he was making up his mind about something.

"Have you been a good boy?" the judge asked, as he gave him a boost up.

Matt settled in, and seemed to be giving this a moment's thought.

"Mostly," he finally admitted, with another quick glance at his father, as if he was checking to see if he was going to be contradicted.

"Mostly?"

"Yeah," Matt smiled, "pretty much."

"And what do you want for Christmas?" Hardcastle asked, sticking to the formula.

The smile had gone a little wise. "You _know_," he insisted softly.

He did; in fact one of them, a very nice remote-control car, was already sitting in the bedroom closet at home. Still, he felt he had to hold up his end of the ritual.

"Remind me again, kiddo; I got a lot of file cabinets up there at the North Pole."

Matt barely stifled a giggle and, when he had gotten that under control, leaned in a little closer and whispered, after another quick look in his father's direction, "Don't worry; _I_ won't tell."

Hardcastle grinned. God forebear that Matt's dad should stop believing.


End file.
